Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  Graal snorted. "My soul was destroyed long centuries ago." He gazed out, across a country scattered with long shadows from a low winter sun. Snow rimed the rocks and trees, frosted the long yellow grass, and clung like diamonds to huge, scattered boulders.

  "It will be night soon."

  "No time to camp," said Skanda, and dropped from the saddle, stretching his back. "We have too much ground to cover, and tick tock tick tock, the clockwork always moves when you wind it up."

  "I'm not sure I agree with your choice of paths." Graal was still gazing into the far distance. His mouth was a narrow, bitter crease, his hands albino pale on the pommel of his saddle.

  "The Gantarak Marshes? It is a straight line."

  "It's a damn dangerous line. I've heard tales of whole armies lost in the murky, shitty depths. And even now winter insects will be waiting to bite and sting and feed."

  "On blood?" Skanda laughed, light gleaming from his gloss black teeth. "How beautifully, deliciously ironic! A blood-sucker feeding from a blood-sucker! I am stunned that you find the concept so hateful. Surely you must empathise with the insect?"

  "I despise insects," said Graal, voice a growl. "I find their lack of empathy disturbing."

  "What, and you vachine are so much better?"

  "We look after our own."

  "Until you slaughter an entire civilisation to satiate a mammoth greed."

  Graal shrugged. "I am what I am. I believe in selfpreservation and building on one's triumphs. What other goal to seek other than total domination? Total dominion? 'If one does not strive to reach the pinnacle of vachine development, then one should stay in the ground with all the other worms.'"

  "As spoken by a true vampire prophet. But his logic, and yours, are flawed. For by turning against your own race in your desperate search for an ultimate kingship, you left your flank unprotected."

  "Sacrificing the vachine of Silva Valley was a necessary evil! A move on the gameboard of life and conquest, a sacrifice that will lead eventually to ultimate victory!"

  "I'm surprised you still feel that way after watching Bhu Vanesh twist Kradek-ka's head from his shoulders."

  "There are always casualties in war," growled Graal.

  "Indeed there are," said Skanda. "But normally one seeks to wipe out the enemy, not one's own nation."

  "It was the only way," said Graal. Then shrugged. "Anyway, plenty more vachine survive to the north who know nothing of my betrayal; I can always go slithering back to them with my tail between my legs." He grinned, an almost boyish grin if it hadn't been for the evil gleam in his cold blue eyes.

  "There are more?" Skanda's head snapped up, a little too sharp.

  Graal stared at Skanda. "More vachine? Yes. Does that bother you?"

  Skanda relaxed, and his words slid out, cool as chilled snakemeat. "Of course not. I know the vachine civilisation wasn't restricted to Silva Valley. How many more?"

  "Thousands," said Graal, and grinned. "Hundreds of thousands. Far north, north of the Black Pike Mountains which are simply pimples on the arse of the World Beast. North, where the ice rules, where the vachine built their master civilisation, Garrenathon, with the help of Harvesters Pure."

  "Indeed," said Skanda, voice still cold, eyes fixed on Graal. "Why, then, do you not reside there? In this Garrenathon? Surely you would be received as a great general? Surely you could satisfy your whims of wealth and power and dominion from such a seat?"

  Graal shook his head. "Kradek-ka and I, we came here, to Silva. Oversaw the building. So you see? The vachine of Silva Valley were our puppets, our playthings, right from the start; nurtured, grown, crafted, awaiting the time when we could resurrect the Vampire Warlords. But we underestimated them. Bastards."

  "Come. Time to move on," said Skanda, and hopped up onto the mare with incredible agility. His black eyes fixed, once, on Graal, then turned and stared off to the far north. There, he imagined vast, vast cities of ice; a world of huge towers and temples and palaces, filled with a million clockwork vampires, a million vachine. "One day, I will find you," he whispered.

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing. I shall lead the way, Graal. We wouldn't want you falling in the marsh now, would we?"

  After the biting and discomfort of two days in the Gantarak Marshes, Graal was relieved to break free onto the Great North Road. Snow fell occasionally, a light peppering that drifted in the wind and frosted the pines which lined the road. They rode north for a while, horses picking their way with ease, but Skanda grew increasingly agitated at this open route commonly used by armies, and now by association, possible vampire armies. After all, the Warlords were spreading their new rule, their new plague, with acumen. And the Great North Road was the easiest way to move troops up and down the flanks of Falanor…

  They cut northeast from the Great North Road just south of Old Valantrium, and travelled east towards Moonlake but with no intention of entering the city – which would either be deserted, or maybe ravaged by vampires, Graal was sure. He had not been privy to all plans set in motion by the Vampire Warlords; but certainly, infesting every city of Falanor was an initial priority.

  Graal and Skanda travelled in silence, mostly. Graal thought long and hard on his past actions, on the vachine, their betrayal, the blood-oil legacy, and Kell. Kell. The bastard who had helped his current tumbling downfall… or at least, that was one way Graal saw events. If Kell had not killed the Soul Stealers, then Graal might, might just, have had the strength necessary to overthrow the Vampire Warlords in their initial moment of weakness. Instead, Graal had been slapped aside like a naughty child.

  Bastard, he thought. Bastard!

  Another two days saw the ancient walls of Old Skulkra edging into view past the rolling snowy heather of Valantrium Moor. Those two days had been a desolation for Graal, two days of plodding across high, exposed moorland, a sharp nasty wind cutting from east to west and carrying ice and snow, no paths to follow in this deserted landscape and a cold sky wider than the world.

  Now, as the frozen heather dropped down from the moorland plateau, so Skanda found them a sheltered place and they made camp before nightfall. The sky was the colour of topaz and stars lay strewn like sugar on velvet. Graal built a fire, and for a change Skanda came and sat with him, and both warmed hands over the flames.

  "What's the plan when we arrive?" said Graal, eyeing the small boy with distaste. Skanda may look like a child, a young human boy, but Graal knew different; he still remembered his inhuman movements when Shanna and Tashmaniok tried to cut his head from his shoulders. He had danced between their silver swords like a ghost. Like one of the Ankarok. The Ancient Race.

  "You will see."

  "You need my blood, do you not?"

  Skanda tilted his head back, and eyes older than the moon surveyed Graal. Skanda smiled, but there was no real humour there, just a mask held in place by necessity and discipline. "Yes. You are observant."

  "Well, I didn't think you dragged me all the way out here for my cooking skills."

  Skanda shrugged. "Your blood-oil runs thick with the souls of thousands. It is rich with death and slaughter. General Graal, I don't believe I could have found a more worthy and more potent specimen if I tried."

  "You will perform magick?"

  "I will."

  "And what will happen?"

  "You will see, General. You will see."

  And despite the fire, despite the warmth of the flames, General Graal realised he was shivering.

  Dawn broke, the sky filled with grey ice. Pink highlighted the edges of huge, thundering stormclouds. The world looked bleak. To Graal, the world felt bleak. A desolation. A world without hope.

  They rode from their makeshift camp, and soon could make out the huge, crumbling walls which surrounded the once-majestic and truly ancient city of Old Skulkra. The walls were thick, collapsed in segments, battlements crumbling, and within the city buildings had become slaves to time. Houses were fragments, part collapsed, spires crumbled, domes smashe
d and deflated, towers detonated as if by some terrible explosion. Those buildings that were intact were sometimes skewed, twisted, walls leaning dangerously or gone altogether. Graal observed all this as they rode from Valantrium Moor, and it was exactly as he remembered it. Back when he'd sent the cankers to kill Kell and Saark…

  Old Skulkra was haunted, it was said, and as Graal and Skanda grew closer they saw a thin mist creeping through the streets, passing over cracked and buckled paving slabs, ghostly fingers curling around the blackened figures of skeletal trees lining many an avenue. Graal reined in his horse and took a good, hard, long look at this ancient, threatening place.

  It was rumoured the city had been built a thousand years ago, but Graal knew this was a misconception. It was probably closer to three thousand years old, maybe even four; it certainly pre-dated the Vampire Warlords and their First Empire of Carnage. It had been a derelict tombstone when Graal first walked the young plains and forests of Falanor. It was simply amazing to Graal that still the city stood, as if defying Nature, as if defying Time and the World.

  The city was filled to the brim with a majestic and towering series of vast architectural wonders, immense towers and bridges, spires and temples, domes and parapets, many in black marble shipped from the far east over treacherous marshes. Old Skulkra had once been a fortified city with walls forty feet thick.

  Huge, vast engine–houses and factories filled the northeast quarter, and had once been home to massive machines which, scholars claimed, were able to carry out complex tasks but were now silent, rusted iron hulks full of decadent oils and toxins.

  A wide central avenue divided Old Skulkra, lined by blackened, twisted trees, arms skeletal and vast and frightening. Beyond this central avenue were enormous private palaces, now crumbled to half-ruins, and huge temples with walls cracked and jigged and displaced, offset and leaning and not entirely natural.

  It was said Old Skulkra was haunted.

  It was said the city carried plague at its core.

  It was said to walk the ancient streets killed a man within days.

  It was said dark, slithering, blood–oil creatures lived in the abandoned machinery of the factories, awaiting fresh flesh and pumping blood, and that ghosts walked the streets at dawn and dusk waiting to crawl into souls and disintegrate a person from the inside out…

  It was said Old Skulkra, the city itself, was alive.

  People did not go to Old Skulkra. Through fear, it was a place to be avoided.

  Gradually, Graal and Skanda found their way to a breach in the massive walls. Gingerly, their mounts picked their way amongst ancient rubble, and then a coldness hit them and Graal shivered. The mist swirled about the hooves of his charger, and they walked the beasts down a broad, sweeping side-street lined with ancient shops, the fronts now open like gaping wounds, the interiors dark and sterile. They emerged onto the wide central avenue, and now they were closer Graal inspected the twisted and blackened trees – as if each one had been struck by lightning, petrified in an instant. Graal eased his mount closer, and touched the nearest trunk. He looked back at Skanda with a frown.

  "It's stone," he said.

  "Yes."

  "Were they carved?"

  "No. They were changed. There was bad magick here, once. Old magick. Come on, follow me."

  Skanda led the way, and Graal gazed up at the massive buildings which lined the avenue. They were vast, many of the carvings stunning to behold even after all this time; even the ravages of nature could do nothing to take away their ancient splendour, their oncemajesty, their foreboding and intimidating watchfulness.

  They are looking at me. Watching me through veils of stone. What is this place? What secrets do the rocks hold? What terrible legends do they hide and protect?

  At the far end of the avenue, distant but growing larger with every hoof-strike squatted a giant building of dulled black stone. It looked almost out of place amongst the majesty of every other building on the avenue, and strangely it seemed less worn, less ravaged; none of the walls leant or were broken, and the roof – a single, sloping slab of black – was unbroken. Pillars lined the front, along with huge steps which, Graal realised as he drew closer, were each as high as a man.

  "Was this place populated by giants?" said Graal.

  "We found it like this," said Skanda. "The Ankarok. It was our home, but we did not build it. Even we do not know how it was made; what incredible engines, what mighty clockwork must have been used in its untimely creation."

  Graal craned his neck, gazing up and up and then across the mighty front facade. Skanda turned his horse to the right, and Graal followed, and there was a ramp, smooth and black. Skanda dismounted and tethered both horses. The beasts were skittish, wide-eyed, ears flat back against their skulls. Graal reached out to calm the beast, not out of any compassion but because he simply didn't want the horse bolting and leaving him stranded… here.

  They walked up the ramp, Graal's boots echoing dully, Skanda's feet slapping a soft rhythm. They stopped at the apex, and Graal peered in. It was warm in there, uncomfortably warm, surprisingly warm, and for a horrible moment Graal had a feeling he was stepping inside a creature, a living entity, into an orifice. He cursed himself, and stepped forward into the temple, hand reaching out to steady himself against a smooth wall.

  Behind him, Skanda smiled, and started to sing a soft, lilting lullaby, and he followed Graal into the darkness which soon shifted by degrees into a warm, ambient, orange glow. Graal moved down long ramps through a massive, vacant room. At the head there was an altar, and glancing back as if for confirmation, Graal continued down and along the black stone floor until he reached steps. He looked up then, and nearly jumped out of his skin. The high vaulted ceiling was alive with thick black tentacles, that moved ever-so-gently, almost imperceptibly, but they did move, and there were thousands of them, and Graal realised his mouth was dry and he felt a strange primal fear course through his blood-oil. He was here, and he felt sleepy, and he was way out of his depth, and he laughed easily, the noise a discordant clash of sound, for he reasoned he'd been duped once more, just like with the Vampire Warlords… only now he thought it might turn out a lot, lot worse. It would seem Kell was not the only pawn in these games…

  "Climb the steps," sang Skanda, talking and singing the words at the same time and the small boy followed Graal upwards and the albino vachine stood on the altar and turned and looked out, as if an audience awaited his performance and for an instant, just an instant, the ground seemed to squirm as if alive with black maggots. But then the feeling, the image, the essence, was gone, and Graal tried to speak, but found he could not.

  "Over here," said Skanda, and took Graal's hand, and in a bizarre scene led the tall, athletic killer, warrior, soldier, vachine to the centre of the stage. They stood there, in the warmth, and Graal felt sweat creeping down his forehead, down his cheeks, trickling under his dull black armour and making him squirm.

  Skanda's song rose in pitch, and suddenly in intensity and Graal could feel it, feel the magick in the air and he realised the magick was in the music and Skanda's song was summoning something, something bad, and Graal felt a sudden urge to flee this place, get on his horse and ride for all he was worth. To hell with dominion and ruling the world; some dreams were best left dead.

  Skanda's song was a beautiful wail, dropping low into the deepest depths of reverberation, then shrieking high and long like a pig impaled on a spear, but all the time the notes came tumbling and they were beautiful and surreal and they spoke of an ancient time, a time of blood and earth and song, a time before the vachine, a time before the vampires, when Falanor was young and fresh and the Ankarok were good and proud and strong. Graal fell to his knees, choking suddenly, and Skanda was standing above him and he seemed to stretch upwards, he was huge, and no longer a boy but savagely ugly, his face the black of carved scorched wood, twisted like the roots of a tree, his face thick with corded knots of muscles and tendon uneven and disjointed and disfigu
red and this huge face loomed down at Graal and thin tentacles grew from his eyes and his mouth elongated into a beak and his eyes shrunk, became round and circular and still the song went on and on and on and huge powerful hands took Graal, and held him tight, and two more hands moved round only they weren't hands they were mandibles and they clamped Graal with sudden ferocious pain and he screamed, screamed as he looked down at the tiny glass disc on the floor before him, glowing black, radiating power and some ancient stench that had nothing to do with even human or vampire; and one of the claws rose, clicking softly, and a smell invaded the place and it was the smell of insect chitin. Graal swallowed, an instant before the claw lashed out and cut Graal's throat. He felt his flesh peel apart like soft fruit under a paring knife. Blood vomited from the new hole, his flesh quivering, his body pumping, heart pumping, emptying his blood-oil, his sacred refined blood-oil into the glass disc where it bubbled and was sucked down, absorbed. Graal would have screamed, but he could not. He would have fought and thrashed and run; but he could not.